


Victory, Defeat, And Other Moments For Roger Federer's Private Wimbledon Scrapbook

by activevirtues



Category: Tennis RPS
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-07-15
Updated: 2008-07-15
Packaged: 2017-10-02 21:01:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/activevirtues/pseuds/activevirtues
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He stands for a while, there at the net, and watches Rafa lay in the dust and roll with the sheer joy of it all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Victory, Defeat, And Other Moments For Roger Federer's Private Wimbledon Scrapbook

**Author's Note:**

> This was pretty much entirely prompted by siriaeve , who allowed me to squee at/with her about how hot they are and how they totally ought to be having lots and lots of sex, possibly in locker rooms. And I swore I would never write RPS: oh, how the mighty have fallen.

He can’t remember the moment he lost, but he remembers clearly what came next. The pure exhaustion, bone-deep like even his heart was tired of working in his chest, the unshakable feeling of failure, the burning humiliation of setting himself up to be knocked down, the fear – he remembers it all, the first heavy smack of it as he watched his shot veer into the net.

Rafa fell. He remembers that, too – watching him just collapse, the way he wanted to so badly but couldn’t, for so many reasons above all of which was the fact that he was Roger fucking Federer, and if he couldn’t be dignified in a well-fought defeat then that fact meant nothing and he might as well drop his tennis racket in the dust and walk away. He knew, even through the pain and the tiredness and the pinpricks behind his eyes from the effort it was taking not to let the tears come, that if he lost that one thing, the fact of who he was and what he had accomplished prior to this worst of all moments, that he might not know where to go from here. So he stood for a while, there at the net, and watched Rafa lay in the dust and roll with the sheer joy of it all.

Those are the two things that stick in his mind the most. The first moments after the defeat will be fresh in his mind for as long as he lives.

The rest of it is a blur, until after the press whirl, where he couldn’t recall exactly what he said if someone put a gun to his head but he’s sure it was all praise of Rafa’s talent, and after the mostly silent meeting with his parents and Mirka, where they hug him and tell him – lie to him – that it means nothing. None of them really believe it.

The next thing that really sticks in his memory of that day – that night, really – is sitting in the locker room, alone, holding his trousers.

It hits him, as he sits on the bench untying his shoes, that he doesn’t recall putting them back on. Clearly it happened that he did, probably in front of thousands of people – millions, if those watching on television were to be included – who could confirm that at some point after Rafa collapsed onto the grass at Centre Court, Roger sat down on his chair, took his neatly folded trousers from his bag, and put them on. He takes them off and studies them, hoping that something will become clearer to him, but it doesn’t really work. He can’t remember.

“You are busy?” a voice – Rafa’s voice – asks from the doorway. “I come back, if you want.”

He drops the trousers into his bag, not bothering to fold them. “No, I’m not busy. Just – no.” He lets out a breath. “I’m not busy.”

Rafa walks tentatively over, ducking his head self-consciously, like Roger’s about to start yelling at him.

He’s not, of course. His throat feels strangely hoarse as it is, and he looks up at Rafa, unable to stop the question from coming to his lips. “Did it feel like this for you?”

“Not all the times, I think,” Rafa says after a moment. He sits down next to Roger, head still bowed, and picks at the knot of the sweatband he hasn’t yet bothered to take off. “The last one, I think maybe – this time, maybe I win. But no. Was difficult, to fight so long for…” Rafa trails off, gestures. Roger is pretty sure what he means.

“I’m sorry, then,” Roger says, and means it. “I’m not sorry I won, but – “

Rafa cuts him off. “But sorry you lost, yes? Is how that goes?”

“Yeah,” Roger says. “I’m sorry you lost.” He looks at Rafa, who has taken off the sweatband and is fiddling with the Nike emblem at the front, tracing it like it’s art.

“You are still the best,” Rafa says, looking up suddenly with a strange fervor in his eyes. “You are still – you.” He drops the sweatband, turning fully to face Roger, and the set of his jaw makes Roger’s breath catch in his throat. This is the Rafa he sees across from him, racket in hand, prepared to do battle. This is Rafael Nadal, Champion, who never comes out except when playing for something serious.

This is the Rafa he sees, and knows, more and better than anyone else on the planet.

“You can’t,” he begins, and then finds he’s not sure what it is Rafa can’t do when he’s looking at Roger like that. Fly, possibly? He laughs sharply, a wild bark of a laugh, and says, “You can’t be sure that won’t change.”

“I can,” Rafa says, and Roger almost believes him. It must show in Roger’s eyes, a flicker of acceptance coming through in his expression, because Rafa repeats, “I can,” and leans in closer to grasp Roger’s shoulder in one sun-browned hand.

All Roger can see when he closes his eyes is Rafa, laying on the ground, grimacing in triumph and exhaustion. And when he opens his eyes, Rafa is still there, looking at him, eyes fierce like he’s won absolutely nothing, like the battle is still going on. And it’s all for him, because somehow Rafa cares enough about him to try to force him out of this daze he’s in.

“Some things change, though,” he says, and presses his mouth to Rafa’s.

Rafa flinches back like he’s been hit, and for a moment they just stay there, Roger’s hand still cupping Rafa’s face, Rafa blinking in – shock, probably, Roger thinks. But he’s not moving away, and Roger’s thumb brushes over the sun-pink skin of Rafa’s cheek seemingly of its own accord, and then they’re moving towards each other, fitting their mouths together like a puzzle.

It works, is all Roger can think. This, his mouth opening under Rafa’s, this works, the way an ace works, all timing and power and pure will coming together to make something almost poetic. He grins against Rafa’s mouth, the first real smile since he watched his ball careen into the net, and pulls Rafa up against him, because if this works – he wants to figure it all out.

Rafa’s tongue slides against his, and Rafa still tastes of sweat and dirt, of tears, all earned salt and glory. He knows the taste. It’s familiar to him, delicious, and Roger wants to pull Rafa down on top of him, taste it everywhere. So he does.

They fall off the bench, and Rafa winces as he comes down hard on his side, but they don’t break the kiss, and Roger’s hand snakes under Rafa’s shirt, pulling hard at his shoulder until Rafa rolls on top of him. They’re kissing harder now, teeth clicking together, and when Rafa’s hips settle against his, a groan rumbles between them and Roger can’t tell who it came from. It’s them, both of them, and they’re tugging off shirts and shoving at shorts until all Roger can feel is skin, smooth and hot and golden, and the cold floor of the locker room under his back.

He licks at Rafa’s neck, just where his pulse is beating double-time under his skin, and then carefully – for the first time since before they stepped onto the court eight hours ago, Roger is being careful – bites, just a little, just enough to feel it. Rafa feels it, clearly, because his hips jerk down, his cock hard and suddenly there against Roger’s.

Roger has never, in all twenty-six years of living and in the ten years since he first had sex, wanted to come so badly. He moves to Rafa’s shoulder, bites down harder this time as his hands fit against Rafa’s ass like they were made for it.

With a breath Rafa begins to say something, then breaks off, sitting back on his heels and looking down at Roger, splayed out on the floor and gasping up at him. Rafa is confident, Roger knows. Rafa knows who he is, what he can do, and settles for nothing less than everything he wants. It doesn’t show often – never in interviews, except in the quiet humility that screams louder than any racket-breaking hissy fit thrown by any number of players on the circuit. Roger is the one who sees it most often, staring across a tennis court at him. It’s fitting he should be seeing it now, as Rafa looks down at him and slowly, almost absently, moves his hand to his own cock and begins to stroke.

“You know…” Rafa begins, then shakes his head. He breathes deep, clearly trying to regroup, all while his hand is still working at his cock. “You don’t know,” Rafa tries again, “what you look. You don’t know,” he says again, “but I see you – always, I see you, Rogi.”

Roger doesn’t follow. It’s most likely the fact that he can’t take his eyes off Rafa’s cock, which is about to drip precome on Roger’s hip as Rafa’s hand picks up a little bit of speed. Roger’s own cock is flushed red, stiff against his stomach, and he’s sure if he touches it he’s going to come and then this will all be over. He’s not ready for that, so his hands clench and he continues to watch the head of Rafa’s cock slide through his fist and tries, tries his best, to listen to Rafa’s low, insistent voice.

“You always are – pride. You do not bend, you do not break.”

“Today,” he gasps, flushing with need and remembered humiliation, still fresh. “Today I…”

“No,” Rafa says, and his other hand moves to Roger’s hip as he leans closer, so close Roger can see the sweat bead on Rafa’s forehead. “You stand, and you watch. You accept. Is not break, Roger. This I think I learn from you.”

Finally Rafa’s hand has moved from his hip, trailing across to trace a soft curl of hair near his navel, down even further to wrap, at last, at the base of Roger’s cock. Now he’s moaning aloud, wanting – needing something he can’t put into name. Needing Rafa. Needing Rafa’s mouth, his cock, his big callused hands, anything Rafa is willing to give him. He’s so close.

Rafa brings their cocks together, spreading the leaking come over the heads and jacking them together slowly. He flicks at Roger’s foreskin, pushing it back to trace under the head and then again across the slit, and when he leans down to lick at Roger’s left nipple, Roger finds himself coming in white-hot spurts across Rafa’s perfect golden stomach and still-jacking hand. Rafa follows the moment the first rope of come wets his skin, and then Roger can feel Rafa’s cock twitch against his as Rafa jerks them through it together.

And then the next thing Roger can remember is just this – Rafa spread over him like a blanket, warm and naked and still sticky, murmuring something in Spanish into his hair.

Rafa rolls away, still stuck on whatever it is he’s trying to say and can’t find the words for.

Roger remembers the feel of the floor against his back, warmed with his own body heat. He remembers the smell, the salt of it, the way the light flickers in the corner like a flame a moth might find a fatal attraction for. And then he sees it – Rafa, face up and grinning at the ceiling like he just won Wimbledon.

That’s another face just for him, Roger thinks, even if the whole world sees it. Now he knows. He caused that face the first time, and this time. It’s his to find.

He remembers as much as he can, and finds himself finally, finally smiling.


End file.
